


At Your Doorstep

by nyagosstar



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyagosstar/pseuds/nyagosstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the fma_fic_contest in um, early 2011 for the prompt Cold. I initially wrote something else, that was more of a character study and wasn't exactly what I wanted. This ended up being much closer to what I was hoping for.
> 
> sainnis provided the beta and helped me work through it. She is amazing.

“Sir? What are you still doing here? It’s late.”

Roy signed his name in a flourish and glanced at Hawkeye. “I’ll be leaving soon. I just had some paperwork to catch up on.”

The look she gave him, frankly, did not belong on the face of a subordinate. “I don’t remember leaving anything for you to finish.”

“It’s just some personal business.” He laid the letter flat on the desk, waiting for the ink to dry. He should have expected that Hawkeye would take the page. It was on his tongue to order her not to read it, as it was none of her business, but she was a fast reader and done by the time he made up his mind.

“Sir,” she started, carefully. “Colonel Mustang. You cannot send this to the Fuhrer.”

Roy leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, exhausted and heartsick and ready to be done with the day. “I thought it only fair that he receive some sort of warning. A military man deserves to know when death is at his doorstep.”

“That may be the case, but sir, if you send this, you’ll be tried for treason. You say you’re going to destroy everything he’s built, that you will take his place and his life. That’s not fair warning, that’s a death threat.” 

“More of a promise, I think.”

“I doubt the military tribunal will care to quibble over semantics.” She held the page as if to tear the letter in half.

He held up a hand. “If you destroy it, I’ll just write it again.”

When the page was little more than parade confetti, she dropped the remains in the trash can and dusted her hands. “Write it as many times as you like. So long as you never send them. Sir.”

Roy put his pen to paper and began to rewrite the letter. It seemed only just; since Roy had set his sights on the Fuhrer, the man should know his intentions. It was more than he deserved, far more than the Fuhrer had ever given Maes, but Roy was trying to make Amestris a better place. He could be the bigger man.

“Sir, I really do think you should head home.”

“I’m just getting to the good part.”

Hawkeye took the pen from his hand and the paper from the desk. “Somehow I don’t think fiery death can really be considered the good part. Please, sir. Don’t you think it’s been a long enough day without this?”

Roy closed his eyes, wondering if the icy ache in his chest would ever go away. He though Ishbal had been bad. He though the desert had burned out his ability to feel, but the death of Maes Hughes was nothing compared to that pain. 

Where Ishabl had left his soul scorched and dry, the loss of Maes because of Roy, _for_ Roy walled off everything behind a glacier of ice. And Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, knew there wasn’t enough fire in the world to break through. For all his power, for all his control, he couldn’t fix this and the cold rage Maes’ death had left behind was, if he admitted to himself and no one else, better than the crippling sorrow of Ishbal. His rage gave him focus and purpose.

Getting killed by a firing squad before he ever got a chance to kill the Fuhrer, however, was not part of the plan. “Perhaps you’re right.” Roy opened his eyes and stood, refusing to acknowledge the pity reflected back at him in Hawkeye’s face. “Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.”

Outside, the night air bit into lungs too used to being indoors. The streets were quiet in the late evening and he had, perhaps, too much time to think. He was halfway home before he changed his mind. Perhaps signing his name to a letter was an ill-conceived plan, but he wanted the Fuhrer to know that someone in Amestris was on to him. He jotted a single line onto a slip of paper and dropped it into a mailbox. Bradley deserved to know and he deserved to fear.

_I am coming_


End file.
